


Covenant

by ScullysGone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Bible Quotes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Military, Pain, Post-Invasion, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 04:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12787092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullysGone/pseuds/ScullysGone
Summary: Post-invasion





	Covenant

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, one and all!! It's my first post-invasion fic and I am so friggin excited about it!!! 
> 
> Now, a couple of things about the story.   
> First, there is Biblical symbolism, and military jargon.   
> Second, this whole thing started because of a sunrise I witnessed on my way to work. It was nearly indescribable, except to say it looked as if the world was on fire. I LOVE being a writer and having moments that can light the kind of fire that sunrise lit inside me.   
> Third, if you've never listened to the impossible greatness that is NEEDTOBREATHE, specifically 'The Reckoning', I HIGHLY encourage you to avail yourself of the pure inspired talent of this band. This album has been a MAJOR creative force behind "Covenant" and continues to inspire.
> 
> Please, I treasure your feedback, opinions, critiques and likes/favorites, so PLEASE be LOUD!! I hope you enjoy the ride and, as always, thanks for climbing aboard with me :-)))   
> I'm pretty sure this is a trigger-free piece. If you're reading and you spot something, please PLEASE message me so I can add a warning.
> 
> Much much love!!  
> I would write without ya'll, but I wouldn't enjoy it as much!  
> MWAH!  
> Firefly

The End came on a Saturday, December twenty-second, two-thousand-twelve. When the sky burned, and the wails of the dying and terrified deafened, she recalled the words of Nahum, and John The Revelator;

"The mountains quake before him and the hills melt away.   
The earth trembles at his presence, the world and all who live in it.   
Who can withstand his indignation? Who can endure his fierce anger?   
His wrath is poured out like fire; the rocks are shattered before him." ( Nahum 1 : 5-6 NIV)

"The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun,   
and the sun was allowed to scorch people with fire.   
They were seared by the intense heat and they cursed the name of God…  
Every island fled away and the mountains could not be found." ( Revelation 16 : 8-9, 20 NIV)

But what had come to the earth had not been of God.

On the third day of The End, the ancient Mount Carmel mountain range rose to five times its elevation in less than six hours. The event destroyed the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea, forcing a tidal surge miles high across the waters and wiped out entire populations. Cyprus, Crete and Malta disappeared, along with Italy. When the upheaval ceased, the Mediterranean had washed over Spain, joining the boiling waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

Across the sea, the Eastern coast of the United States cleaved at the Appalachians, splintering southward through the Blue Ridge Mountains, and sank into the salt. Nearly every topographical feature on the planet changed in a matter of hours. Entire civilizations were wiped out, and Earth's human population was decreased by more than half.

It was The End.

And, the beginning of a battle for life the likes of which Earth had never seen. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Mulder entered their billet near-silently. It was a rare occasion to find Scully resting, but he was hopeful, on the rare times she slipped from his presence. Each time he opened their door, he prayed she was curled up on their bed, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the bleakness of the world beyond her dreams. Pushing the heavy metal door in, he sighed in quiet defeat seeing her sitting in the dark, legs crossed in front of her, her beloved cross slowly worried between her fingers.

"The whole world is on fire, Mulder."

Her voice was small and hollow. Far away. She stared blankly at the gray walls.

"And, all I can think to do is hurl desperate prayers into the smoke and burning embers at a God I'm no longer certain exists."

Her chin twitched almost imperceptibly, her eyes closing against the unwanted wave of emotion, and she bowed her head.

"Is this really the way it ends? Is this why we fought so hard? What we lost so mu...?"

She couldn't finish her words and he moved across the cold concrete floor, knelt and laid his hand on her shoulder. In their years together, he had never wanted anything more than he wanted to take the anguish from her voice. If he'd found Samantha; if his father had been the man young Fox dreamed him to be; if his mother had loved him the way a mother should - it would have all been as nothing if he couldn't erase the pain and fear in Scully's heart.

She exhaled, defeated, and buried her face in his chest, still unwilling to let him see the wetness on her face. Ever stoic. Ever composed. Ever capable of control and reason. Even her tears fell without much ado, silent and uniform, sliding over the freckled skin of her cheeks in orderly streams, until dutifully disappearing under the soft line of her jaw.

Despite his own pain, his heart swelled; he treasured her trust above all, was honored every time she allowed even the smallest breach in her independent exterior and welcomed him in. She was never more beautiful to him than when she was strong enough to open her heart and let him see the vulnerability she feared most. She believed it made her weak, but he knew the courage it took to drop the wall and hold onto someone for dear life.

He didn't waste the gift, encircling her with eager arms. He wanted to guard her, to protect her like high sloping mountains surrounding a lush and fertile valley. If he felt he'd done a piss-poor job in years past, it was infinitely harder now. Near impossible. More than the forces without, his battles were now fought to protect her from despair.

"What do you pray for?"

Scully pulled away, stood and turned her back to him, as if too ashamed to speak her prayers to his face.

"I pray for him."

William. Of course she prayed for him. The missing piece of their life. Their son, who's absence left an ache inside his father's heart Mulder had never been able to put to words. It was deep and intense, like the belly of a silent volcano; there were days he feared the pain of it would burst from his chest and consume him. In the quietest depths of the night, away from sit-reps and recon briefings, away from Scully's worried glances when he was terrible at hiding the burn, away from his own desperate need to keep moving forward - in the blackest night, he gave into the darkness and hated he his son's existence.

Scully's questions came to her in sentences. Is this really the end? Is this what we fought for? His own came in a one-word shout, with deafening volume between his ears.

WHY!?

Over and over again until he thought he would go mad.

WHY!?

WHY!?

WHY!?

Why him? Why had he been given a child at all? Why had William been born, only to be taken away without any real explanation? Why hadn't Scully trusted him to protect them? Why had she sent him away from his son? Why had she just given William away? Why couldn't he have held his son one more time? Caressed his perfect face. Smelled his skin and heard his quiet breathing. Why couldn't William have just been a normal little boy? Why hadn't They just left his family the hell alone?!

In that dark, when his eyes began to pulse in their sockets, his eardrums to thud relentlessly in time with his racing heart, and the sweat to soak his clothes, he would force himself up and into the tiny privy tucked into the corner of their room. Standing with hands clenching the stainless steel sink, shoulders sharply angled and his chin nearly touching his chest, he would heave and sob silently, careful not to disturb the sleeping occupant beyond the curtained doorway. In that dark, he hated himself more than he ever thought possible. How could he feel such terrible feelings about Scully? About William? As if either had had any control over what happened to to his family.

"I pray he's dead."

Scully's flat, matter-of-fact tone broke into his thoughts and frightened him more than the unbelievable confession; her tiny voice was even farther away, like she was removed from her physical self just like a child fleeing the reality of a heavy-handed drunken father. She was farther away than he had ever felt her, her muted alto a piercing scream from the edge; she was falling.

"What kind of mother prays her child is dead? I never deserved him. And I left him. And now I pray he is dead and free from this nightmare. Safe. That's all I wanted, Mulder."

The tone had turned to a pleading, and her words stopped suddenly. Mulder sat still as midnight. She turned abruptly and locked his eyes, a hollowness clouding hers, and her face was pale. When she spoke again, the thinness of her voice hung in the air like a cold mist; he shivered inside.

"I don't want to wake up to this pain anymore. I can hear him crying in my head. I can hear the world screaming. It never stops. The emptiness is all I can see anymore. I can't see anything. I want to open my eyes somewhere far from here, Mulder, and see anything but darkness!"

Her voice grew louder, the muscles in her back and arms trembling. She dragged in choking breaths. War was an evil villain. It was bold and loud, in your face, but also absolutely silent with uncertainty. In the endless waiting and wondering who will live; who will die; who is already gone?

"I want it all to stop!"

She was screaming now, her hands clenched into tight fists.

"I pray for death, Mulder! MY DEATH! Death has been my constant companion for so long, but it never takes me! It just rips everyone I love away! IT'S NOT FAIR! I WANT TO SEE MY SON!"

She fell into him and sobbed, weeping from the shattered heart of a childless mother, an orphan and an only child. She wept for her sister and brothers. For her mother and father. Mostly, he knew she wept for her son. Not 'their son'. In that moment, William was solely hers, and he didn't deny her the distinction. Only a mother could own the way she felt, and he wouldn't dishonor her by feeling slighted. So he held her tight, silently loving her, and gently rocking until she slept fitfully in his arms.

Scully lay at the edge of the too-small bunk, wrapped in scratchy Army-issue wool, and the FBI's most unwanted man. She let her mind drift back to the last moment she remembered being awake and felt the pangs of guilt. She'd broken down, broken hard. It had gotten too big and she'd lost control. She'd said too much, things she wouldn't be able to erase from Mulder's memory. With a pain deep inside she thought about all the words, the volume of her voice, the tears and the screaming and wished for the hundredth time she'd been stronger.

The weight of him behind her, the solid promise of his body between her and the cold concrete wall, slowly brought her back to quiet resolve, and a restoration of her faith. Mulder was still by her side. The steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling, and the solace of his sound sleep, felt like forgiveness and promise. So much had been taken from her, that was true. She had suffered greatly. Yet one constant remained. Mulder was still by her side. Of course God still existed. And He, and Mulder, loved her deeper than she deserved.

"Mulder..."

She squeezed gently against his arm, slung over her torso with all the appearance of casualness, but with what she knew had been protective purpose. Gently stroking his forearm and recharging her soul with the warmth of his skin, she felt his muscles respond as he came into semi-consciousness. Despite the thick sleep in his voice, she knew he was hyper-aware she had woken and was speaking to him.

"Mmmm?"

"I don't want to die."

She'd meant it as an apology, but the words left her lips with conviction. She was surprised to find she meant them. In the hardest moments, when she couldn't see through her own suffering, she just wanted it all to end. But, those moments never lasted; she new she could never really want to leave Mulder to face their world alone.

"I know."

"And I don't want William to be dead."

His hand, calloused and hard with work and worry, yet tender in all things where she was concerned, moved from the shallow concave of her belly to its rightful place between the pillow and her cheek. He cupped her face with the gentleness she had come to depend on, and nuzzled the soft spot behind her ear. She kissed the edge of his palm, closed her eyes, and drifted back into dreamless sleep.

A sturdy rapping on the cold metal door had Mulder on his feet and Scully reaching for her service weapon in less than half a heart beat, hearts pounding and ears pricked for any indication of what lay on the other side of the steel barrier. Both their minds raced through possible scenarios and Mulder leaned for the 'last resort' pills stashed in the clear plastic box just inches from where he stood, between Scully and possible danger.

"Agent Mulder."

Scully recognized Lieutenant Tommy Bolt's authoritative baritone and let out a hiss of irritation, slowly releasing the hammer on her gun. Her face was flushed with anger and adrenaline. The sanctity of the living quarters was a highly guarded privilege in the bunker. Even the lowest ranking among its inhabitants was provided the security of knowing their billet was a sanctuary; unless the perimeter has been breached, it was understood that any and all interruptions could wait until the standard briefing time.

Mulder stopped his reaching and narrowed his stance, moving his left foot a full twelve inches closer to his right. Standing shirtless in his grey sweatpants, with his hair a disheveled mess, Scully thought for a moment he looked less like a human resistance leader and more like a college frat boy. It was a brief but welcome departure from the seriousness of their circumstances.

Lieutenant Bolt's voice confused them. He wasn't a person either would have expected to be sent to alert them of something as dire as a breach of the perimeter. And if it wasn't that, why had they been disturbed?

She looked at Mulder who was obviously going through the same steps she was, and had come to the same non-conclusion. He shook his head slightly and motioned for her to raise her pistol back at the door. She did, understanding immediately that he would take no chances. Mulder cracked the hatch and looked down at the former Army officer..

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"There's a problem, Agent Mulder. You're requested in SitCom as soon as possible. Authentication Code xray-foxtrot-one-zero-one-three, Sir."

Scully lowered her weapon and looked at Mulder. There were two dozen different authentication codes she and Mulder had memorized since coming to the bunker. There were three codes unique to each officer, each code with a designator for the severity of the situation. The code Bolt recited indicated a high-priority-non-life-threatening-event. Mulder was changing his pants as he answered the Lieutenant.

"On my way."

He closed the hatch and reached for his boots. Scully put her gun back under the pillow and rubbed the back of her neck. After the night they'd had, to wake with such an adrenaline dump had her ready to crawl back into bed. Her head bowed, she didn't see Mulder's glance.

"It's ok, Scully. I'll go and see what's going on. Take your time and come when you're ready."

She didn't look at him, hating that he felt the need to give her permission to take it slow. She knew he didn't mean it that way, but she hated it none the less. She had really lost herself last night, and she knew it would take weeks, maybe months, for him to stop looking at her like a wounded service animal. He knew what she was capable of, how strong she was, and yet he felt the need to give her an out.

But he was also right. She was beat down. She didn't have the energy to be 'fine'. She hated the feeling of exhaustion, but knew neither would be able to focus on anything if she tried to push her way past his concern. Resigned, she drew her socked feet back up onto the bed, and he pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

"I'll be waiting for you."

He quickly kissed her forehead, knowing brevity was better than the lingering embrace he wished he could give. She was upset with herself, and exhausted, and she needed her space. Without waiting for an answer he turned to the hatch, stepped over the bulkhead and made his way to SitCom with purpose, forcing his concentration to the unknown at the far end of the bunker.

"Three transmissions from Running Back over the last two hours, Sir. Unknown bogey approximately three klicks from his position. No attempt at a perimeter breach. No attempt to leave the area. It appears the bogey is waiting, Sir."

Mulder stared at the yellowed topographical map that detailed from Washington and Oregon, to the eastern border of Montana and Wyoming. The western states were mostly gone now, swallowed up by the Pacific Ocean with the much of the rest of the west coast. He found Running Back's position, about a mile and a half inside the southeastern perimeter of the Bravo-7 bunker. One of the last human hold-outs, the bunker was buried deep within the remote, and glaciated, northern border of the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. Well away from the new coastline of the North American continent, and in a place the aliens had yet to find interest.

The range was an off-shoot of the Rockies, and wasn't a place you arrived to on accident. The remoteness of the northern end especially required purpose. Forethought. Planning. Even before The End, when human travel all but impossible, making it to the highest peaks of the north took days even for the most experienced hikers. There were places within the range's borders that had yet to see a human, or alien, footprint.

"Waiting for what?"

"Unknown, Sir. Running Back won't transmit again for another three minutes, seventeen seconds."

Running Back was former USMC Gunnery Sergeant Chris Elam. Comfortable in his natural point of aim, he sent his transmissions without taking his eyes off the target. The bogey stood on a peak approximately a mile and three-quarters from his position, just beyond the farthest stretches of sniper range. His approach had been deliberate, a calculated ascent up the most visible ridge. Once he reached the peak, he dropped his pack to the ground and wiped the back of his neck. The pack was too small, and the bogey was too calm. Gunny was highly suspicious he was holding cross-hairs on one of those Super Soldier bastards.

Who else could have made the days-long climb, with precious little supplies, and without at least looking winded? Between transmissions, Elam watched in equal parts anticipation and irritation; the bastard was just standing there. He'd made no attempt to move the 400 meters he needed to breach Bravo-7's perimeter and give the Gunny the green light he needed to take the head smooth off his broad shoulders.

It was time for the next sit-rep. Elam moved his left hand off the butt of his M14 and pressed the thin black button on the stock.

"Running Back. Negative movement."

There were too many variables in a longer transmission. Brevity was essential. What he wanted to say was a bit more colorful, but he didn't entertain the idea of actually transmitting it.

Without moving his body, he moved his eye from the scope and listened to the wind, a soft breeze coming from his left, moving over his ghillie suit at a downward angle to his right foot. He could smell a distant rain. Honeysuckle was blooming on the southern slopes. At least two-hundred yards away, some manner of four-legged animal was moving through the grass.

Suddenly, somewhere deep inside, he felt it. The unmistakable twinge deep in a marine's gut that told him something wasn't as it seemed. He was making a mistake. A big one. One that could get them all killed. But it was all wrong. The bogey wasn't supposed to be a target? He was...Christ, could he really be a friendly? Gunny Elam swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He turned his eye back through the scope and stared hard at the distant peak.

The bogey had turned to face the direction of Bravo-7. He was standing with his feet shoulder width apart, arms at twenty-degree angles from his sides and his palms facing out. Elam would swear the bastard was looking directly at him, right down the middle of his scope and into his own damn eye. Holy shit, who was this guy? Pressing the black button again, he gave what he knew could be his last transmission.

"Running Back. Target made visual contact. Moving to The Back Door. Suspect non-hostile. Shit! If I'm wrong, guys, I'm sorry. Going with my gut."

He knew he was going to catch hell. If he survived. But a marine's gut wasn't something he could ignore. And his hadn't been wrong so far. He wasn't stupid, just crazy he supposed, and he started to move from his position in the agonizingly slow way of the sniper.

Hours passed before Elam was standing between the unknown intruder and the working end of fourteen automatic rifles. Just beyond the cold steel stood a squad of hard-eyed resistance soldiers, one extremely pissed off Colonel Boulder, and Agent Fox Mulder. Ironically, the one guy in the whole group he distrusted the most was the only one not looking at him as if he'd brought Saddam and Osama over for Christmas dinner.

Behind him, his guest shifted. The murmuration of molded steel that followed him had Elam wondering if he would be able to dive out of the way before being torn in half by a volley. At least it wouldn't hurt; he'd be dead as soon as the first bullet ripped through his vest.

The men drawing down on him were friends. Brothers. But he knew they'd fire on him without hesitation. For a brief moment, he was sorry he had put them in the position they were all now in. A few of them would say he had it coming, that it served him right for bringing an unknown right in the front door.

A few others would be all too ready just to squeeze off a couple of dozen rounds into a real body; Elam knew that feeling all too well. When you were trained for the kill shot, when it became an itch you couldn't scratch, you'd rub against a cactus just to make it stop. And he was the cactus.

The tension became oppressive as nobody spoke. Mulder stepped in between Colonel Boulder and the Sergeant. Drawn forward, he needed a better look. There was something contradictory about the stranger; he couldn't be more than barely a teenager, yet he seemed years older. He was obviously big for his age, but he didn't have the awkwardness of a man-child. He stood sure-footed, appearing completely at ease, and not at all shaken by the situation around him. He certainly wasn't phased by the amount of firepower pointed directly at him.

There was something about him that began to make Mulder's heart beat faster. Made the pit of his stomach flip around like a gymnast and his mouth go dry like the Gobi. Almost as soon as it started, it all stopped, and Mulder felt a strange curtain of calm fall over him. Suddenly, it made sense. He moved closer to the young man and looked in his eyes without speaking. They were his mother's eyes, there was no doubt.

"William?"

The young man didn't blink. Barely fourteen, he stood solid at five-foot-eleven, and was still growing; the pains in his legs kept him awake in the dark more often than nightmares. He was handsome, though his chestnut hair was thick with grime and clung to his scalp. In another lifetime, when the hot summer sun beat down on his pale shoulders, his mother would say it looked like molten copper.

William had been his birth name. His father said they had chosen not to change it as an honor to his birth mother. His adoption had been no secret; in fact, they often thanked God for his birth mother. They were grateful she had had the courage to let him go. Emily Van De Kamp said it was the greatest expression of love a mother could give, letting go. Especially when it meant saying goodbye forever.

Before the war, his mother would sit on the front porch, rocking slowly and humming "Amazing Grace", and William knew she was thinking of Samuel. Thinking of the way she used to hold him, rocking and humming, and dreaming of the promise of his little life. Of his white-blonde hair and emerald eyes and the day she let him go. He had suffered long enough; no matter how much it hurt to say goodbye, she had to let him go.

William had been a baby, like Samuel, when he was brought to the Van De Kamps. A little life, full of promise. The day his adoption was final, his mother and father had given him a middle name, Nehemiah, which meant 'comforted by Yahweh'. His father told William he believed God had sent him to Emily, to comfort her. To bring the joy back into her life.

But he hadn't been exactly like Samuel. He had played hard and dirty, as boys are want to do. But even as a toddler, he held a seriousness deep inside his eyes. The older he grew, his reflective countenance deepend to the point his parents thought him less a child and more an old soul in a young boy's body.

Staring back at his natural father was like looking in a mirror. There were deeper lines, a broader nose, and of course some grey hair, but those would come with time. She had wondered these many years if he would look like his father; he knew she'd be happy to see that he did. Nodding minutely, he watched the emotions of his confirmation fill Fox Mulder's eyes, and father and son smiled at each other for the first time.

"Agent Mulder?"

Colonel Boulder's voice broke the silence; Mulder had forgotten everyone and everything. The lifetime that passed between him and his son had only been a fraction of a second to the soldiers surrounding them. With sights still aimed, they stood like a picket fence of death.

"Lower your weapons. It's ok. He's…"

His voice lodged somewhere between his heart and his mouth, and for a moment he was lost in the truth of the words he was about to say.

"He's my son."

The whole scene became surreal. Moments before, he'd been sprinting down the entrance corridor, gun drawn, magnetite bullets loaded into six extra magazines on his tactical vest, and praying he hadn't left Scully for the last time. By the time she had entered SitCom, the call to General Quarters was sounding. SOP in Bravo-7 called for random intruder drills. Mulder was part of FAST-1, the primary defense response within the bunker. Scully, being one of only three medical doctors, had been assigned to the infirmary and was the chief trauma coordinator. Before she could cross the threshold, the look on Mulder's face told her it wasn't a drill.

"Running Back is coming in. He's not alone."

Her eyes had widened, her mouth opened as if to speak, but nothing had come out. She reached for his hand and squeezed it tighter than he could ever remember. Then she turned on her heels and ran. In his mind, he had called after her, saying words the two of them had avoided for reasons he had never been able to articulate, but suddenly wished he'd said every day; I love you, Scully.

In that moment, he thought of her, what it would mean to her to see their son in the flesh. Not just a faded memory, but alive. Breathing. Half-grown and standing before her own eyes, as he now stood before Mulder's.

William stepped back and reached inside the back pocket of his pants. Pulling out a tattered yellow envelope, he gently raised the flap and lifted the piece of paper from inside. It was taped and tattered, obviously unfolded and refolded again, until it was translucent from too many oily finger prints. Deliberately, he handed it to Mulder.

William,

My son. My heart. My flesh and blood. I will be waiting for you. Survive, William. No matter what happens, stay alive. It's coming. The sides have been chosen. Promise me you'll keep your eyes open and stay alive. There will never be anyone who loves you like I do. I will be waiting for you.

I promise…

Scully's voice read the letter inside his head, while outside, William recited it word for word from memory. The two sounds, equal in clarity, equal in volume, complemented each other so perfectly. When he finished, Mulder stared at the handwriting, at Scully's impossibly perfect cursive, and was nearly driven to his knees as the gravity of her breakdown hit him. The depth of her painful confession. She had pleaded with her son to stay alive. To keep his eyes open. She had promised to be waiting for him. And in her darkest hour, when all she wanted was to be free of the pain, she believed she had failed him all over again.

He looked at William, standing with his eyes closed, his hand over his chest as if holding his heart.

"I need to see her."

He could hear her now. She was waiting, half mad with the fear of losing the only one she had left in the world. Pacing the floor of the infirmary, she was worrying her cross and squeezing her eyes tightly against tears she refused to release; not until she knew one way or the other.

The sound of her heart breaking had been louder than anything from before. And every single day of his life, he had heard her voice. Telling him she loved him. That she missed him. That she was sorry. He'd seen her memories; his father's face, and his own. And he remembered how she had looked at him on the day of his birth, the beads of sweat and lines of worry, and more love than anyone else had ever shown him.

Now he needed to show her. She needed to see him, to touch him, and he would show her that he'd never been angry. That he'd never felt lost. That she had, in fact, always been with him. That he had kept his promise, and everything would be ok, because he and his father would be with her until the end.

Scully watched the security screen and held her breath as she held the tiny gold cross between her fingers. How long had she been waiting? Too long. It was taking too long. What was taking too long? What was happening out there? She didn't know, and that was the part that always needled at her. So many times, waiting and wondering, and not ever knowing what was happening to him until it was all over. And then it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had come back.

She tried to remember how to breathe. In and out, she forced the air; too many times forgetting and being reminded by the burn in her chest as the cells cried out for more. In and out. In and out. Christ, where was he?

Somewhere beyond the two-ton security door, the only shred of humanity she cared about could be fighting for his life. He could be hurt. He could be dying. And she was nice and tucked away in the infirmary, safe and warm and waiting for soldiers whose names she didn't care to remember to bring in his lifeless, bleeding body. Good God, where was he?!

The security screen flashed to life, triggered by motion sensors one-hundred and fifty yards down the long narrow corridor; the biometric lock had been activated as soon as Scully had stepped through the hatch. It was standard operating procedure; once the hatch was sealed, it could only be opened by authorized personnel with key-coded red blood cells. The aliens hadn't successfully hybridized a human since William. They could mimic any human they wanted, but they couldn't fake DNA.

As the pixels on the screen grew brighter, her heart raced as she recognized the purposeful stride of Fox Mulder making his way quickly past the first camera. Once at the hatch, the view on her screen switched to the second camera and she watched him put his finger on the scanner. A quick prick, a heartbeat pause, and the four-inch thick cylinders hummed mechanically, sliding out of their housing in the granite mountain side. With perfect balance, the four-thousand-pound steel door swung open on its mammoth hinges. A split second later, she wrapped her arms around him and spoke to God.

"Thank you. Thank you."

Mulder held her tight, one hand caressing the back of her head while the other wrapped around her and pulled her to him. Everything was about to change. Not only was Scully's life about to be restored, Mulder felt that a change was coming to the entire world.

"What happened out there, Mulder?"

"Come with me, Scully. You need to see something."

His eyes were serious. He was worried, but not anxious. Cautious, but not timid. He took her hand, a simple gesture to most, but a rare and delicate thing between them. Their partnership had been a symphony of minimalist expressions. Where others in the world used flowery words and often gratuitous public displays of affection, she and Mulder had made their commitments clear with loyalty and trust. Whenever either had needed reassurance, which was a rare occasion itself, a squeeze of the hand had been worth more than all the words in the world.

And now he walked with her, hand in hand, down the long corridor that lead to the Situation Communications room. Standing guard outside the double doors, two fatigue-clad soldiers snapped to attention as they approached.

She had never really gotten used to the way the soldiers in the bunker treated her and Mulder. They had never been military. Yet, at every turn they were saluted, and Ma'am'd and Sir'd until she thought she would go crazy. Mulder told her it was because of the X Files; their work had become the cornerstone of every post-invasion operation and theater of battle. He said they would go down in the history books as heros, waving his hand in a flourish and flashing his goofy grin.

Mulder reached his hand for the door knob, stopped for a fraction of a second and then turned it clockwise. She hesitated, his pause making her wary.

"It's ok, Scully. Trust me."

So she did. He pushed the door inside and moved them both over the threshold. The room appeared empty, the long table cleared of its usual mess of papers, the rolling chairs spaced evenly around. The bank of monitor screens on the far wall showed black and white images sent from the cameras surrounding the perimeter of Bravo-7. To the left, a rolling cart with an ancient coffee decanter and chipped white coffee mugs. Down the three steps that led to the lower level, she could see the computer stations where CIC operators monitored missions outside the bunker's walls.

Mulder's hand pulled a little as he turned to close the door. She stopped and turned with him, startled to see another man in the room, to the right of the door and hidden behind it's opening.

He stood about twenty feet away from them, silent with his hands by his side and looking directly at her. She stared back, mute and immovable. His eyes. He had been a baby the last time she had looked into those eyes, yet it was as if it had been yesterday. Wide and wise, old beyond their years. They had her color, but they were his father's eyes. And his father's hair. The determined chin. The almost-pouty lips. He did look like his father.

Mulder squeezed gently. It's ok. It's ok.

"Oh my God…"

Her voice trailed, her stoicism crumbling.

"William."

His name came in a whisper. He stepped towards her, and she stepped back, an involuntary movement of self-preservation; her mind couldn't decide if he was real, or if she had simply gone mad. Her hands grew moist with nervous perspiration, trembling without permission. Mulder gripped her gently, silently urging her to trust her eyes. To trust him.

"William. My son. My heart. My flesh and blood."

Hearing his voice for the first time, a small sound escaped her stricken throat and her knees threatened mutiny. Mulder held her tighter still as their son continued.

"I will be waiting for you. Survive, William. No matter what happens, stay alive. It's coming. The sides have been chosen. Promise me you'll keep your eyes open and stay alive. There will never be anyone who loves you like I do. I will be waiting for you."

Another step closer and he bridged the remaining gap. Mulder watched with a pride he had only dreamed about, never daring to hope he would experience, as his son knelt in front of Scully. William took her hand and placed the palm on his cheek, and Mulder stared in wonderment; the boy seemed to know exactly what she needed. To feel him, the warmth of blood pulsing under his skin. The unmistakable proof of life.

"I promise…"

She finished with him, the words a half-whisper, half-sob, holding his eyes as the tears fell from her own. A promise kept. Faith restored. Her family reunited. She would face whatever the rest of their life held without fear. And they would win.


End file.
